


Jake: Meet French Fries.

by unorthodoxCreativity



Series: Wilderness Heart [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dave Lalonde - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-30
Updated: 2012-06-30
Packaged: 2017-11-08 20:45:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/447369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During Jake's wanderings of Austin, TX, he makes a new friend and discovers the best food known to man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jake: Meet French Fries.

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Dangerous Game](https://archiveofourown.org/works/439429) by [AmariT](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmariT/pseuds/AmariT). 



> Part of a drabble series inspired by AmariT's fic A Dangerous Game. 
> 
> Tagged Dave/Jake despite a lack of it here, as there will be more of that pairing to come in future drabbles.

Your name is Jake English, and you are preposterously hungry.

You’ve been hopping about the city for a few hours, and while you could make your way back to Dirk Strider’s apartment, that would take energy you just don’t have right now. Even an adventurer needs his breaks.

A smattering of park benches waits across the street, but there’s no walking man. You are not allowed to cross the street unless the walking man tells you to, and then you absolutely must listen to him. Right now, the big orange hand tells you to please stay on your side of the street. It’s alright. Sitting down for a bit, even if you took a bit of a sleep, would only serve to exhaust you further.

Sustenance: this is your new mission directive.

You pause, training your nose to the city air. The clawish tang of oil and pollution is a bit different than the warm wetness of your jungle, but it’s still easy enough to block out. Just around the corner is some delightful smell, and you follow it eagerly.

The Golden Arches from teen cult movies greet you. Shuffling forward with something that might be considered awe, you gingerly open the doors and step inside. The black and white tile is a little sticky under your shoes as you find the nearest corner and huddle there, observing this new environment.

It’s rather empty at the moment. There are only two people you can see: one woman seated at a table in the center of the establishment, noshing on what appears to be a fancier configuration of what Dirk Strider calls a burger. You’ve never realized more things could go on the meat. This requires trying out the next time he fries some up.

The other person has been standing near the front counters, like a yellow-and-red uniformed soldier. His hand is up in salutation, and he’s got a large grin on his face, but he hasn’t moved despite the lack of patronage. Golly, he takes his job seriously. You wonder if you ought to go up to him and say hello. It only seems polite.

You’re halfway across the room and traversing the little half-wall divider between the general consumption area and the place of food retrieval when a voice startles you out of your concentration. For a moment you believe it to be the voice of the McDonald’s Soldier, but then you realize it’s coming from your left, and that the Soldier is shiny and made of plastic.

You spook, and for obvious reasons. Statues should not be placed about like normal people!

The woman with the Fancy Burger makes some sound of complaint and the other voice from behind the counter speaks to you directly.

“Hey, man, you okay?”

You poke your head out from behind the garbage receptacle you have chosen as your temporary barricade. The owner of the voice is a strapping lad, probably not much younger than yourself, with wispy blond hair and a pair of shadow spectacles a lot like Dirk Strider’s, except round.

“Are you,” you start, carefully, “aware of the statue that has deposited itself in a pose of regular mannitude by your entryway?”

The lad seems confused for a moment before laughing in a little huff that you find charming. “Oh, yeah, old Ronald? I can’t say you’re the first to be freaked out, he’s got that predatory glaze going on, like he’ll steal your soul if you refuse a Super Size.”

You feel adequately protected with his secondary watch, so you step out from behind the garbage box.

\--

Your name is Dave Lalonde, and the weirdest homeless guy just made your day.

It’s at the mid-afternoon lull when almost nobody comes in, so you were goofing off in the back, but you heard some movement and witnessed possibly the best Youtube sensation that you unfortunately didn’t manage to film.

This scruffy guy who is now standing in front of the counter with a dopey grin had a soap-opera grade freak out over the fact Ronald the Clown From Hell (as you affectionately call him) is not a real dude. You don’t think you’ve seen anything like that happen except from toddlers, and they’re much less entertaining because they tend to bawl.

You almost feel guilty that you have to throw the guy out now. He looks like he’s been crawling around in the gutters for a few days, though he’s not as smelly as you’d expect. Still, you doubt he’s got any cash on him, so it’s not like he’s a paying customer.

But he looks hungry, though, and you do have an extra buck in your pocket from when that little old lady gave you a tip for being “such a dang cutiepie.” You have a reputation of unprecedented cool to uphold, but not even you could refuse a dollar.

“D’you want a burger?” you offer, figuring if you pay it forward maybe karma will hold you in her favor and the next little old lady will give you two dollars.

The homeless guy perks up. “French fries?”

“Uh, sure.” The burger would have been more filling, but if the dude wants some soggy-ass potato pulp, he’ll get some soggy-ass potato pulp.

The silence is palpable as you start up the fryer, except for the audible squeak of his sneakers as he shifts from his heels to his toes in childish anticipation. It’s a little hard to tell under the grime, but you’re pretty sure this guy is about an 8, maybe a 9 on the Fuckability Scale. Your sister’s harpy voice wavers somewhere behind your eyeballs and reminds you of what terrible taste you have in men. You ignore her and cherish the unabashedly excitable grin on his face when you give him the small greasy package of fries. What a fucking cutie.

\--

Your name is Jake English, and by golly, french fries are the best delicacy you have ever tried. It’s a wonder those kids in the movies treat them with such offhandedness. Surely they should be appreciating the pure gold of this potato mash from the heavens.

You find a spot beneath the corner booth and carefully munch on the fries until there’s nothing left but the stubborn grease on your fingers. Sated, you feel ready again to take on the city, so you bop up and head for the door.

“Thank you, kind sir!” you call over your shoulder at the bespectacled boy. What an incredible service this place provides. It’s the first you’ve come across that didn’t demand that odd green paper for its food.

Perhaps this should become a regular haunt of yours, you decide.

Yes, this is the best decision you have made all day.

 

 


End file.
